


countdown

by kayelem



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayelem/pseuds/kayelem
Summary: A countdown from beginning (end?)... to the end (beginning?)





	1. x

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally supposed to only be like 2,000 words total, but like most things it got away from me.

> _**x.** _

 

_(This is how it ~~ends~~ starts.) _

 

She stumbles into his life. Literally.

 

An offer to help right the rickety display she’s knocked over is on her lips before she’s even righted herself and the cacophonous roar of the crowd outside his booth falls away as she turns.

 

“I’m _so_ sorry! Some princess arrived in the city today; between that and the Masquerade everyone is so excited they’re paying attention to hardly a thing else!” She stops rambling as she’s picking up one of the trinkets he’s made: “Ohh, this is pretty, did you make this! How much? The least I can do is buy something since I tried to wreck the place!”

 

Her smile cleaves open Asra’s chest, soothes that sudden violence by filling the space between his lungs and heart with sunlight, and creeping vines of blooming flowers wrap around the caging of his ribs. Something deep whispers that he’s already lost a battle Asra didn’t realize he was fighting;caught in the thundercloud color of her eyes.

 

Rosettes blush beneath the constellations he’s already started charting of her freckles. The realization that he’s been _staring_ hits Asra hard as a smack across the face.

 

“Your name,” he blurts (too) loudly, awkwardly, sloppily. He takes a breath, tries again. “It’s yours for your name.”

 

“That’s an _awfully_ steep asking price – names have power, you know.” There’s amusement lurking in the corners of her cheshire cat smile.

 

She’s not playing fair. It’s hard to catch his breath with how light his chest feels, suffocating on that sunshine she’s stuffed inside of him. “What do you think is a fair price, then?”

 

Asra spends the next year lingering on thoughts of her smile, the warmth of her breath on his cheek; the kiss she’d used as currency and the taste of his regret when he let her say goodbye without telling him her name.

 


	2. ix

 

> _**ix.** _

 

A strange illness begins to spread through Vesuiva in the three years since Asra first meets Kaelle. Slowly at first, a handful of people here and there – Kaelle’s aunt is, sadly, one of the first to succumb. Her death brings Kaelle back to the city to settle her aunt’s affairs… and to sell the shop. She’s meeting with a potential buyer in the morning, she tells him, and then she’s heading ba c k... h o m e... t o…

 

Her words fade as the news clangs through Asra like a bell’s toll, reverberates along his bones almost painfully. The idea that Asra may never see her again is a poison in his veins.

 

“Why don’t you run the shop?”

 

She laughs in his face. “ _Me?_ Oh no, I don’t think so.”

 

“I’m serious, I’ll help you!”

 

“ _You_ just don’t want me to leave.”

 

Maybe Kaelle expects him to laugh off the playful accusation, but he _can’t._ He can’t because she doesn’t _know_ , Asra’s never told her, ~~hasn’t been brave enough~~ because it was always enough to spend a few moments caught in her orbit. He’s never told Kaelle about the sunshine in his chest and flowers hanging on his ribs and the way he _aches_ when she smiles at him.

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Asra admits, and it feels like his heart tumbles from the tip of his tongue as he does.

 

Kaelle lets him walk her back to the shop, lets him kiss her at the front door when he asks – something to remember him by. It’s supposed to be gentle, the lingering brush of his lips against hers, barely there because he doesn’t trust himself, and it is, _at first_ until Kaelle makes a soft sound in the back of her throat that destroys him.

 

And Asra kisses her again, stronger, tries to fill his lungs with the taste of her because if this, _yesyesyes,_ if this is the last he has of her, _thisthisthis_ is what he wants to remember. This is what he wants, always, until the ocean tides rise and wash everything away, until the stars burn out of the sky and the sun collapses on itself. He didn’t know it was possible to want something so desperately and they don’t have enough _-_ _hoursdaysyears -_ time _._

 

He comes back to himself long enough to catch his breath. His fingers slide into her hair until he’s holding the back of her neck; the blush of her cheek is searing beneath the pad of his thumb.

 

“Invite me in,” he rasps into the air between them. “Please, Kaelle.”

 

She does. Into the shop where the boxes tell him that Kaelle’s been in the city for weeks before he chanced upon her in the tavern tonight (and that she hadn’t intended to say goodbye). Into her bed where Asra spends the hours learning the taste of her skin, and falling in love with the way she breathes and sighs his name. He doesn’t dare close his eyes for a moment, desperate to commit it perfectly to memory down to the stinging pain of Kaelle’s fingernails on his shoulder blades.

 

In the morning light Asra wakes, weary, heart heavy with a yawning hollow already forming in the pit of his stomach. Until he feels gentle fingers carding through his hair. He rolls, finds Kaelle already dressed and perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes shining.

 

“I told the buyer the shop’s not for sale.”

 


	3. viii

> _**viii.** _

 

Asra’s a little surprised when he receives a summons to the palace, is even more surprised when Count Lucio ~~asks~~ _demands_ his help. He’s fallen ill with the same sickness that’s been sweeping through the city for the past several years – The Red Plague they’re calling it because of the ghastly color that overtakes the whites of the victim’s eyes. People die everyday by the dozens now, and there’s no telling who it will take, there’s no discernible pattern to the disease’s spread. And no way so far to stem its deadly tide.

 

He’s seen the people suffering first hand, in the customers that come into Kaelle’s shop and beg for any relief she or Asra can offer. Word must have spread to Lucio about the draught she brews that ease the symptoms for a time, but must not know _she’s_ actually the one who makes it otherwise she would be there as well.

 

The Count offers wealth and fame, a title even, anything Asra desires is within Lucio’s power to give.

 

But Asra thinks of the coliseum, hears the roar of a crowd calling for a kill so loudly it carries through the streets. He thinks of the district that flooded last week, how the displaced residents asked for aid from the palace and none ever came. He hears the carts rolling through the streets, the steady ring of the undertaker’s bell and calling -

 

_Bring out your dead!_

 

“No.” The thought of helping Lucio is enough to turn his stomach – let him suffer the way the people have suffered because before _he_ had fallen ill, Lucio didn’t care about the devastation the plague wrought. “My magic isn’t for sale.”

 

He expects Lucio to throw a fit, but Asra is _alarmingly_ surprised when the Count’s eyes, not yet that glaring red, light up with _amusement_. “Isn’t it? I thought that was the purpose of that tacky shop you have.”

 

The casual mention of the shop is enough to freeze Asra’s blood because it’s too close _too close_ to Kaelle. And something must shift just enough in his expression, or the way he holds himself because a feral grin splits Lucio’s face – he’s scented Asra’s blood in the water. There’s _something_ _there_ that Lucio can leverage against him, he just doesn’t know what it is.

 

“I should have made my meaning clearer,” Asra says despite the panic clawing its way up his spine, “my magic isn’t for sale _to you_.”

 

Asra turns sharply on his heel despite not being formally dismissed and the guards stop him in the doorway. “Mark my words, magician, you _will_ help me, _eventually_.”

 

Asra never did like the way Lucio said it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that a lot of this is me pulling stuff out of my ass to fill in the blanks


	4. vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a direct quote from the game in this chapter.

> _**vii.** _

 

A city-wide call goes out.

 

The Count and Countess are opening the palace doors and making available their near limitless resources to anyone willing to devote their minds and skills to curing the Red Plague. To whoever cures the plague goes wealth, renown, and the unending gratitude of all Vesuvia.

 

Kaelle finds Asra in the middle of furiously packing. “Asra, what in the world are you doing?”

 

“We’re leaving, getting as far away from Vesuvia as we can,” he tells her. “Somewhere we’ll be safe.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t think you should either.”

 

The conversation devolves quickly into an argument. Kaelle wants to help find a cure for the plague, to help the people suffering and dying. She won’t listen to Asra telling her that it’s a farce, Lucio doesn’t _care_ about the people, if anyone finds a cure it may never even make it to those who so desperately need it. It may be a farce, she argues, but if she helps then she _knows_ the cure will make it to the people even if she has to personally see to it.

 

And he _hate_ _s_ _hateshates_ how calm she is in the face of his distress.

 

“What if _you_ get sick trying to find the cure!?” Asra shouts, though it comes out choked with emotion. He blinks and the whites of her eyes are red, her lips cracked and pale. Blinks again and the vision’s gone but his stomach turns over itself, the floor sways beneath his feet.

 

“People risk their lives everyday, and for much less than a plague cure,” she replies. Only Kaelle would find nobility in such an agonizing death. “This is bigger than you or me, Asra.”

 

It is, but Asra can’t admit how _terrified_ he is, can’t swallow down the acrid taste of it in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to leave without her, but he _can’t_ stay – it’s tearing him a p a r t.

 

Three steps out the back door Asra wants to turn around, but he doesn’t.

 


	5. vi

> _**vi.** _

 

 

The desert is lovely, bright, and vast. When the sun is at its highest Asra can see for miles in every direction until the heat warps the distant horizon. At night the moon soothes and comforts what the day scorched and he counts the stars until sleep overtakes him. It would be peaceful, beautiful, but even out here he can see the distant red clouds over Vesuvia, the towering plumes of smoke from the Lazaret and the furnaces that burn all day and night and reach up, up, up, like a skeletal hand trying to pull the sky down, down, down.

 

Letters from Kaelle find their way to him at their desert sanctuary, though he’s not surprised – he hadn’t exactly made it a secret where he was going. The letters arrive once a week and they ease his heart at least a little, though the days in between he’s a tangled knot of anxiety and agony.

 

She tells him how she is (still healthy and proud of the work she’s doing); about the doctor she’s working under (Dr. Devorak); how the city smells of smoke constantly (from the crematorium); that this winter’s snow was black (polluted by soot and ash); and that she checks on Muriel frequently ( _I still don’t think he likes me very much_ ).

 

After a few weeks the letters stop asking Asra to come home, but she finishes each one the same:

 

_I love you._  
_My heart misses yours_ _.  
_ _I’ll see you soon._

 

In his letters Asra tells her that he spends his time doing little jobs for the nearby village, patching a roof here, healing someone there ( _I helped deliver a baby, can you believe it?_ ); how he was invited to their annual festival ( _I wish I could have danced with you_ ); and keeps her updated on the status of her beloved succulents (s _till alive and thriving_ ).

 

He does not stop asking her to leave the city to join him and ends all of his letters the same:

 

_I love, love, love you.  
_ _I miss you terribly._  
Keep yourself safe.

 

It happens during one of the days between letters. He startles awake, his body so overwhelming hot all over that he twists and vomits over the side of the bed. There’s a cloying sickly-sweet smell permeating the air that he recognizes as the scent of dead and dying things. All he can taste is blood between his teeth and every struggling inhale burns like he’s swallowed hot coals. Something is... deeply, deeply _wrong_.

 

_I’m… sorry, Asra._

 

He summons a ball of light and looks around only to find every one of Kaelle’s succulents, thriving only hours ago, has withered and died.

 


	6. v.

 

 

 

 

> _v._

 

The shop is dark and cold when Asra returns. It is also immaculately clean and there’s a letter sitting on the counter with his name on it.

 

_My Dear Asra,  
If you’re reading this then it means you’ve come home and I cannot tell you how happy that makes me, unfortunately, I’m not there to welcome you back and for that I’m sorry. I began suspecting I was sick the day I sent my last letter and began writing this one; after I finish it and clean the shop I’m taking myself to the Lazaret – I can’t bear the thought of getting anyone else sick. _

_I want you to have the shop, it was always more yours than mine anyway since you’re the one who wanted me to run it in the first place. But I have a request to make of you – the last request of a dying woman – find Julian… Dr. Devorak and help him. Something is terribly wrong in Vesuvia, and I don’t believe it’s entirely because of the plague. And please, try not to hate Julian, he’s a good man and I didn’t tell him I wasn’t feeling well. He’s going to torture himself enough as it is when he finds out._

_I’m sorry, Asra, that I’m leaving you but I don’t regret staying even now._

_I love you so very dearly. Everything I am will burn to ash save for that and if that love is all I’ve left behind… I think I’ll be alright with that. Don’t let me haunt you, I don’t want to be a ghost of regret that you carry in the dark corners of your soul._

_I love, love, love you._

_I will wait for you in the next life.  
Kaelle _

 

Asra only knows the blackened bones he finds are Kaelle’s because he can still feel the last vestiges of her magic desperately clinging to the marrow. The sun that she’d lit in his chest all those years ago goes supernova, collapses on itself and leaves nothing but a heavy, endless black that settles like silt in the bottom of his lungs and kicks up with every gasping, wailing breath. The flowers that she’d woven around his ribs wilt and wither and die, rot away to compost at the base of his spine.

 

He’s certain that he shatters, sharp, glittering edges catching in the light. He wants to bury her _twofoursix_ feet deeper, crawl into that grave and make it _theirs_ and when, a thousand years from now, someone digs them up will find his bones wrapped around hers and think he must have loved her like a tragedy because they knew nothing of the _before;_ but his heart refuses to stop _beat-beat-beating_ behind the prison of his breastbone.

 

Instead he picks up his pieces and puts them back together wrong.

 

(It will take Asra years more to understand that breaking and _being broken_ are not the same thing.)

 


	7. iv.

> _**iv.** _

 

There’s a spellbook in the shop that Asra has never opened, one that had belonged to Kaelle’s aunt and lives in a locked, protected cabinet. Kaelle never told him how her aunt came to be in possession of it, and truthfully she may not have even known.

 

What Asra does know is that the book is unlike any he has ever seen before and that the spells, the rituals, are _powerful._ He has only seen Kaelle use the book twice in the years he’s known her and each time after working the spell, she slept for two days.

 

If Kaelle were ~~_alive_~~ here, he knows exactly what she would say to see him unlocking the cabinet.

 

 _(Don’t let me haunt you_ , her letter had said. But how can he not when the silence of the shop echoes with her absence, when the air is still perfumed with the scent of her hair and he turns toward every shifting shadow in the vain hope that it will be her.)

 

But Kaelle is _~~dead~~_ not here, and Asra is just desperate enough.

 

It takes surprisingly little to convince Lucio of the ritual – a not entirely untrue lie about only helping the Count to help himself. Lucio never suspects Asra’s duplicity because he believes that everyone is just as self-centered and self-serving as he is.

 


	8. iii.

> _**iii.** _

 

 

He wishes, deeply, that Kaelle had been wrong about Julian… Ilya. He _is_ a good man - ridiculous, dramatic, flamboyant but _good_ and maybe that’s why Asra finds it so difficult to truly hate the man the way he wants.

 

Ilya talks about her sometimes, his brilliant apprentice, because he doesn’t know what she was to Asra, doesn’t know they even knew one another. He can never make himself stay and listen. He doesn’t want to share her memory with anyone, and Ilya remembers her _wrong_. So Asra leaves Ilya to his pacing, goes to the tree where he carved her name – to remember why he’s come to the palace in the first place. He closes his eyes and pretends the wind rustling the leaves is Kaelle’s whisper in his ear, the breeze through his hair is her gentle fingers.

 

But Ilya is too curious for his own good, asks too many questions and _yearns_. It’s easy enough to distract him.

 

Ilya tastes like desperation, like the last swig of whiskey in the bottom of a glass, all burn and none of the warmth. Asra wants him to realize it’s a mistake to want him, that there’s something inside of him that rose from the graveyard in his chest with cracked skin and a snarling voice that _cannotcannotcannot_ give Ilya what he wants. But he takes everything Asra gives him and still asks for _more!yes!harder!_ until Asra’s heart-sick, grieving pain is bruised, scratched, and bitten into Ilya’s skin.

 

The next morning Asra heals the marks, hands softer, gentler than the night before – he ignores the warmth in Ilya’s eyes, the hope in the corner of his smile. In another life Asra could have loved Ilya the way he deserves…

 

… _but not this one._

 


	9. ii.

> _**ii.** _

 

 

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He hears it in his head, feels it in his bones, in the goosebumps that rise on his arms. There’s someone – some _thing­,_ moving around him, assessing.

 

_What will you give me, I wonder? Is there even a price you **won’t**_ _pay?_

 

“Anything.” Everything, he doesn’t say.

 

… _That’s an awfully dangerous offer. You have no idea what I could demand as payment._

 

_**Anythinganythinganything. I will pay any price. Please. Take the breath in my lungs, the blood in my veins –** _

 

_The beat of your heart? Now there’s an idea… Are you certain?_

 

“Anything,” Asra repeats, steady. Certain.

 

 _As you wish._ Asra blinks, feels the weight of a dagger in his hand. The blade is as long as his hand and wickedly sharp. _A heart willingly given, for a soul returned._

 

“You can’t just take it?” he asks.

 

_That’s not how it works. It’s a bargain, both parties must be willing._

 

“… Will I feel it?” he wonders. Because they are somewhere between real and not, neither here nor there.

 

_It will be the most painful thing you have ever experienced._

 

“I doubt that.”

 

But Asra is wrong. So very, very wrong – it’s simply a _different_ kind of pain. At the first bite of the dagger’s blade against his chest, Asra sucks in his breath against thesharp pain. The warmth of his blood blooms through his shirt, runs in rivulets down his skin, to the waist of his pants. There’s sweat at his hairline, his knees thump to the ground; he nearly loses his grip on the dagger.

 

Someone is screaming, it rackets around Asra’s skull and down his spine.

 

He can’t get the blade past his breastbone, falls forward into his hands, panting, slip-sliding in the pool of his blood so thick he can see his wrecked reflection.

 

Somewhere, the voice sighs and there’s the phantom sensation of a comforting hand on his shoulder, soothing down his back. _It’s alright, that’s enough now._

 

_**No!** _

 

Asra rears up onto his knees, grips the hilt with both hands and lets loose a scream that tastes like copper as he uses all his strength to force the blade past his breast until it gives with a sickening _crack!_ He can’t see through the tears in his eyes and the way his vision is beginning to tunnel. But he starts to carve with jerky, imprecise movements.

 

He half expects the thing he pulls out of his chest to be withered and black, but it’s warm and dripping red, fluttering like a baby bird in the palm of his hand.

 

_The bargain is struck._


	10. i.

 

> _**i.** _

 

Asra wakes abruptly as if from a nightmare, gasping, sweat cooling on his brow. He’s in the shop, but he can’t remember how he got here from the palace – wasn’t he _just_ in Lucio’s private dining room?

 

As he swings his legs over the side of the bed a sudden, lancing pain in his chest stops him with a groan. It’s sharp and white, almost blinding in its intensity and steals his breath. He feels his heartbeat beneath his palm, but it stutters, skips like a stone over water.

 

A crash from downstairs startles Asra to his feet, and there’s another once he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

 

When he pulls back the curtain to the backroom, Asra stops in his tracks.

 

“… _Kaelle?_ ”

 

He’s not thinking as he crosses the room in three strides, drops to where she’s crowded into the corner and pulls her to him. His eyes are burning as he tucks his face into the crook of her neck, breathes in the scent of her skin – feels her heart _beatingbeatingbeating_ against his. Asra never wants to let Kaelle go, he wants to climb inside of her, live inside her skin and make a home out of her bones, fuse his soul to hers to they never have to be parted again.

 

And for one beautiful, blissful moment Asra is the happiest he has ever been. The sun in begins to rise in his chest, blushing sunrise colors fill his veins and coax those long dead flowering vines back to life around his ribs.

 

He pulls back, confused, when she doesn’t return the embrace – the look on her face is _afraid_ and there are tears threatening to spill over her cheeks. A low, keening moan sounds from the back of her throat.

 

“Kaelle? It’s alright, you’re home.”

 

She doesn’t seem to understand him, doesn’t seem to be able to do much of anything, and then –

 

_**The bargain is struck.** _

 

Asra remembers _why_ his heart is skipping, _why_ it feels like he was stabbed in the chest. Because he was, because he had carved out his heart to bring Kaelle back to him. He looks at her more closely now and sees nothing of the Kaelle he knew. There are no scars, no blemishes, none of the imperfections he had known so well. But it _is_ her, it _feels_ like her so why –

 

_**A heart willingly given, for a soul returned.** _

 

… Only her soul had returned. Not her memories. Not anything that would make him familiar to her.

 

Asra pushes himself to his feet, backs away from Kaelle, out of the back room and into the shop proper. His thoughts begin to spiral just as she begins to wail – a high, distressed sound – asking for help in the only way she knows how right now. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to return to him alive and whole – _why hadn’t it worked?_

 

Dismally, it occurs to Asra that he should have offered _more_. He should have carved his whole heart out of his chest, reached beyond that and tore his very soul out of himself.

 

But it’s too late now. So Asra takes a calming breath, wipes the wetness from his lashes. He gathers up every tender thing he feels for her, that all-consuming love that drove him to carve out half his heart and buries it in that graveyard in his chest and returns to where Kaelle is hiccuping and sobbing in the corner. She stops when she notices he’s come back, but still curls into herself tighter when he crouches in front of her.

 

“My name is Asra, I’m going to help you, Kaelle.”

 

_(This is how it ends ~~starts~~.)_


End file.
